


They'll Take It All

by someonelsesheart



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Pining, bucketfuls of pining, but there sure are benefits, except they're not really friends, lots of pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonelsesheart/pseuds/someonelsesheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is not, by nature, a liar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They'll Take It All

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song 'Liar' by Mumford and Sons. Because I just _had_ to. Set sometime after the finale.

 

_  
_

Stiles is not, by nature, a liar. He likes honesty. He likes people who tell it like it is, who aren’t afraid to skip right past the sugarcoating and go into _fuck, right where it hurts_ territory. That’s why he has this thing for Derek, see, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Derek isn’t afraid to hit him right where it hurts, and Stiles – well.

Stiles isn’t, by nature, a liar, but lately he’s had very little qualms about becoming one.

“It means nothing, okay?” Derek hisses, pushing Stiles against the wall, hands everywhere, sliding down, down, down. “It’s just – fucking. Just sex.”

See, Stiles is older now, seventeen, past that awkward stage between being a man and a boy, and he thinks that Derek gets that. Derek gets that and that’s why he’s given up the whole ‘You’re too young’ act and just taken straight to fucking Stiles against his bedroom door.

“Of course,” Stiles says into Derek’s shoulder, breathy but still poisonous. “S’means nothing,” he gasps, and that’s lie number one.

 

*

 

All of the others see Derek as in control, careful. Sure, he has his lapses of vulnerability, those moments when he loses control, but most of the time he’s all 6 feet of straight-faced gorgeous control. With Stiles, it’s different. With Stiles, he’s all curses and teeth, half-formed words that _could be_ something but never turn out to be.

If anger is his anchor, then Stiles is the one wrenching up that anchor and letting him loose.

He never werewolfs-out with Stiles, which is the weird thing, Stiles thinks. If Stiles makes him so goddamn pissed off then how does he keep the change from happening?

Stiles doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t ask, either. After sex, Derek always clears up his stuff and leaves, like if he stays too long he might be forced to face his actions and then it will just all go to shit. And every time, Stiles sits in his bed, pulls his knees to his chest, and watches the other man get dressed, his gut churning something passionate.

“Stiles,” Derek says one night, pausing at the window and looking back at Stiles, eyes flickering in the moonlight. “You’re still okay with this?” It’s worded like a statement, but it comes out like a question.

Stiles swallows, tastes acid at the motion, grits his teeth to stop his emotions from showing on his face. “Of course,” he says. And then, “Of course.”

That’s lie number two.

 

*

It’s cold, and dark, and Stiles has been dragged along to this godforsaken camping trip as _practice_ for _survival_ even though he’s _human_ , for God’s sake, and doesn’t _need_ this shit. Scott is asleep in his tent with Allison, and Erica, Boyd and Isaac are screwing around like overgrown pups, clawing and biting at each other playfully.

“You’ll be leaving for college soon,” Derek says quietly. Stiles thinks that he means it like a conversation beginner, but it twists up at the end, like a question.

“Yeah,” Stiles concedes. “Was thinking of hanging around here, though. Don’t want to go too far away from my dad.”

Derek is warm and constant by Stiles’ side, setting Stiles’ skin alight in the best way possible. “That’s the only reason you don’t want to leave. Your dad.” Derek says it like he’s asking confirmation for the inscription on his tombstone.

Stiles swallows past the bitterness, past the doubt. “Of course,” he says, and that’s number three.

*

There’s a foreign pack in town, and they’re terrorizing the community, invading Derek’s pack’s territory. And Derek is _pissed,_ so pissed that he goes bounding off into the forest, his pack trailing after him, leaving Stiles along in the dark.

Stiles can stick up for himself, don’t get him wrong. But getting cornered by a violent pack of five werewolves is nobody’s cup of tea, except maybe Derek’s but he has a sadist complex or some shit. Stiles is so bruised and so bloodied that in the end he has no fight left in him, just curls up in a ball on the ground and waits for it to stop.

And then it does.

There’s a furious roar, one that makes even Stiles’ heart jump and Stiles has been hanging around werewolves for, like, _ever._ A figure, moving fast, hits the man next to Stiles, sending two of the werewolves to the ground. The rest of the pack comes soon after that, clearing out the rest of the werewolves with ease. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever felt so useless in his life.

“Fucking hell, Stiles,” Derek is muttering, grabbing at his face with surprising gentleness, running his thumbs over the grazes and blooming bruises there. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so – _fuck_.”

Stiles ends up in hospital with two broken ribs, various fractures and severe bruising, but other than that, he’s okay. He’s still alive, at least, which is all he can ask for, in the end. Derek won’t leave, no matter how much his pack try to coax him to do so to get some sleep, and he’s slumped in the chair next to Stiles’ beside, eyes closed and breathing even, when Stiles wakes up.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Stiles says, pulling himself into a sitting position.

Derek eyes flicker open, alert as ever, and he doesn’t even ask how Stiles knew he wasn’t asleep, which just shows how shit he’s feeling. “Yes,” he says, slow and tired. “Yes, Stiles, it was.”

“You were just trying to protect the town,” Stiles defends – well, defends Derek from himself. “You couldn’t have known that it was a trap.”

“I _should_ have,” Derek hisses, and the words come out like a cross between a plea and a prayer, desperate and raw like an open wound that doesn’t quite know how to heal. “I should have known, Stiles. Fuck.”

Stiles doesn’t really know how to reply to that except to call Derek a fucking idiot, which he _is_ but that wouldn’t help the situation, so he kisses him. The kiss isn’t like the others. It’s soft and warm, almost – well. It’s almost loving. Derek tastes like coffee and raspberry muffin, and Stiles doesn’t even care that _he_ probably tastes like old blood, he just – fuck. He just has to, okay? If Derek brings it up later, he can write it off as the drugs.

“Stiles,” Derek says finally, and his voice is unsure, almost shaky. “Stiles, tell me one thing okay? Promise me you’ll tell me if you ever – if you ever want something different. If you want to leave.”

“I promise,” Stiles says, and that’s lie number four.

 

*

 

They’re at Stiles’ house, and it’s nearly midnight. It’s almost silent, but it’s not peaceful, not a _quiet_ sort of silence. It’s the sort of silence that screams and cries and begs to be broken. It’s the kind of silence that breaks people’s hearts.

Stiles turns over, grabs at Derek when the werewolf makes to leave and holds him there. Derek freezes beneath Stiles’ fingers, muscles tightly coiled and expression, Stiles does not doubt, as stoic as ever. But Stiles is _tired,_ okay? Tired of pretending he doesn’t give a fuck when he _does,_ because, _no,_ he’s not bionic, he can’t resist Derek’s charms and he sure as hell can’t stop himself from liking him more than is probably sane.

“Don’t go,” Stiles spits out, like a curse.

“Stiles,” Derek says, cautious, pulling away from Stiles’ touch. “You know I have to.”

Stiles feels the thickness in his throat, the tightness in his chest, and thinks _fuck, no. Don’t cry. Not here. Not now._ He takes a deep breath and says, “Then go. Fucking _go_. And don’t come back, okay? Just –” His voice breaks a little. “Just don’t come back.”

Derek is unmoving by Stiles’ bed, like a statue, and his face shows no emotion but his eyes – oh God, his eyes show all sorts of confusion and pain and Stiles doesn’t even want to _think_ about that, doesn’t _want_ to know why, just knows that Derek doesn’t want anything more than this and Stiles _can’t stomach that anymore._

“Just –” Derek pauses. “You said you – fuck, Stiles, why now? Do you hate me? Is it –”

Stiles cuts him off. “No.”

“Then what the _fuck_ is it? You – fuck, Stiles.” Derek frowns. “Tell me you’re not – no feelings, remember? We promised no feelings.”

Stiles gets to his feet then, hands balled into fists, angry and tired and _hurting._ He feels lie number five on his tongue, tastes it, is about to spit it out when he hears himself say,“I _know,_ okay? But I can’t – it just _happened_!”

And then Derek is kissing him.

It’s not gentle, it’s not loving, it’s painful and it _hurts,_ but it also feels so goddamn _good._ The kiss tastes like sweetness and like – like fucking _sunshine,_ for God’s sake. It tastes like that feeling when you wake up in the morning to the smell of bacon, or Chinese and a good movie on a cold and rainy Friday night.

“I don’t love you, Stiles – I,” Derek is spitting out suddenly, “I _can’t_ love you.”

But then Derek comes in again, catches Stiles’ bottom lip between his teeth and this kiss is _different_ somehow, like it _means_ something this time more than frustrated sex and a warm body on a cold night.

And Stiles thinks that this is okay, that this is more than okay, because when he hisses, "I love you," like a confession, like a curse, Derek just kisses him some more and whispers, "I know. Fuck it if I haven't tried to stop it, but you, too."

Stiles never was a very good liar, anyway.

 

 

 

 


End file.
